


Hobbits Can Grow Anything

by DuCali



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Arkenstone - Freeform, BAMF Hobbits, Bilbo teasing Thorin, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Oblivious Thorin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-08-19 19:36:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8222432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuCali/pseuds/DuCali
Summary: Hobbits' view of what a person can grow is rather different from everyone else.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not claim to be the first one that thought of this. I am 80% sure I read something similar elsewhere, but couldn't find it. It included Bilbo making a whole slew of Arkenstones though, and I'm really just messing with Thorin here. I think there was another one where he made them into night lights or something.

He’d only come out for a smoke. 

Thorin had looked like he could use it— a facial twitch was developing, and Dwalin was starting to lean away when Thorin got too close to him. So Bilbo had given him an invitation to join.

Sitting at the foot of the reclaimed mountain, Bilbo watched in bewilderment as the Dwarf King under the Mountain paced a rut in the ground.

Smoke billowed from his mouth, his sturdy pipe clenched between his teeth. It made him look rather draconic. 

Bilbo made the rather clever decision to keep such observations to himself. 

Putting aside his own pipe for the moment as he reclined on the stone perch he’d chosen as his personal bench, and he mentally harangued himself for his suicidal tendencies.

Cringing slightly, he asked, “Whatever is the problem Thorin?” in a calm voice.

Thorin whirled majestically ( _dramatically_ ) to face him, eyes wide. 

“Problem!?! PROBLEM!?!?! _I’LL TELL YOU WHAT THE PROBLEM IS!_ ” Thorin screamed, hands balled into fists, spittle flying. 

‘ _Anytime now_ ’ thought Bilbo, with an accompanying mental eye-roll.

“What kind of King am I?”

Bilbo made an inquisitive noise. 

 

_”What kind of King of Dwarves can I be without the Arkenstone!?!”_

ah. Bilbo shifted his eyes to the rather suspicious mound of soil to the left of the bench that he had planted the Arkenstone in two days ago. An enterprising sprout was already halfway to becoming what Bilbo believed would be a marvelous and prolific bush. 

And then further out to the similar mounds that housed a few of the Elvish “Stones of Starlight”, a particularly nice teacup that he’d found intact with a pleasing pattern, the last of his longbottom leaf, a peach pit, one of Beorn’s acorns, and one of Thorin’s pilfered silk sleeping shirts. 

One in the back where it would get the most sun had a link from the shirt of mail that Thorin had gifted him. He wouldn’t risk damage to the shirt itself by planting it, as it was too pretty—and a gift besides! But he thought that a tree of similar links rather like a willow would be rather magnificent, if gaudy. It had taken three hours to pry it loose. 

Stubborn thing. 

“I’m sure it’ll turn up” he said consolingly. Thorin let out an inarticulate scream of frustration before stomping off majestically. 

Bilbo smiled behind his pipe and went back to wondering what else he might be able to grow around the mountain. Those pearls Nori had been carrying around looked rather pretty…


	2. Growth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo puttering about his garden, wistfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, this is really kinda vague contemplation. It's just the type of mindset I have when I'm gardening. It'll get more in the next chapter.

After the Elves showing up, the men getting cranky, and Thorin going half mad from a missing glowy rock, there was the battle. 

Bilbo had stayed by Thorin through it all, just barely keeping from rolling his eyes, his light fingers picking up odds and ends as he went about his day, half sure that his poor planting had been trampled in the fight. 

By the time he had a moment to himself and made it back to his little plot of land on the mountainside, his Arkenstone bush was flowering (each little white flower glowing as if with an inner light), and his mithril tree was twice as tall as he was, with long, blue-silver leaves. 

His teacups were just about to bloom, and it looked like he had three silk shirts already, though they were still so small as to barely fit a faunt- more likely they’d do only for a wee doll at the moment. 

Still, for no more than a season or two all told, it was prodigious growth. 

To add to his little garden, he dug out two little burrows and buried in the end a single short dragon scale from Smaug’s left pinky toe, and in another, a hank of pure white Warg fur. 

Living beings always grew better in an established hobbit garden, but the mountain seemed more than willing to support a bit and some bobs- almost like no one had planted anything on the mountain at all for as long as it stood. 

Going through his pockets, Bilbo came upon a little gold ring. It sat cold in his hand, as if trying to avoid notice. 

And why not? With an uptick of his mouth, Bilbo bent down and poking a pinky into the loose soil near his new smoking bench (a thoughtful gift from Bofur), he buried the little ring. There was a wisp of doubt, but Bilbo brushed it off easily, after all- why have one magic ring, when you could have dozens? And then he might see about crossing his rings with the mithril trees, see what kind of patterns developed out of that. He tamped down firmly over the buried trinket, and whispered a blessing of growth. 

_Meanwhile, in the land of Mordor, a misinterpreted Necromancer writhed in agony and clutched at his very being as his only tether to the world disintegrated in the magic of Yavanna’s gift._

Bilbo turned to find the contemplative gaze of a dwarrow king. 

“You could use the tools I made you, _Ghivashel_.” Said the king.

 

Bilbo looked at the king. “Leave me to my craft Thorin Oakenshield, I’ll use your gift in time.” He smiled, and stepped forward, burying his face in the soft ermine of Thorin’s new coat, seeking the warmth of his new lover. 

He’d grow them a child soon, Bilbo thought. A little flowering vine grown in a hobbit garden on the side of a dwarrow mountain, under the shade of a mithril tree surrounded by magic rings and teacups. 

Then he’d use Thorin’s gifts.


End file.
